


The Fire Rises

by pen_rabbit



Series: Rise [3]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Slowly things are changing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_rabbit/pseuds/pen_rabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark Knight Rises: an Inception origins story, part three. </p>
<p>In which there are secrets, suspicions, misjudgments, and maybe even a miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fire Rises

**Author's Note:**

> Huge amounts of thanks, as always, to my fabulous beta omletlove, and my amazing cheerleaders dayari and viennajones. This story would be nothing without them. <3
> 
> Also, this story will eventually be Arthur/Eames. So I guess that makes it Bane/Blake as well? But not really. Um. Yes. Anyway.  
>  
> 
> Please note that this chapter can be read as containing brief mentions of addiction and self-harm.

Alfred likes having young people around the house again. They’re quiet, his two guests, but it’s a breath of fresh air all the same. He’s opened the east wing for them, adjoining bedrooms and a series of living areas, spaces that were only rarely used when the Waynes were alive, and not at all since. He doesn’t know how much of it they use, or what they share, and he’s going to keep it that way.

The names on the (shiny, new, not-very-good-quality) passports are Catherine and Michael Trench. They’re only temporary, of course, while he works on establishing more permanent identities. It’s not what he calls them. Though, to be fair, he doesn’t call them anything, really – just avoids using names, working around the absence as best he can. In his mind they are themselves, without any need for title or appellation. There is no possibility of confusion.

She has a name for him, of course, and he for her. Alfred doesn’t use those.

Once, testing, thinking of the warehouse, Alfred suggests that they might call him Bane. There is a long, still, silent moment, and later he will swear he felt the room go several degrees colder. He doesn’t use that name again.

The day staff, such as they are, have been informed his niece and her friend will be staying for quite some time, and for the most part they’re delighted to have folk around the house again. Alfred drops a few quiet words in the housekeeper’s ear, and she passes it around: the young people have had a hard time of it recently, poor loves, and should be treated politely and left to their privacy.

His young friend has taken to wandering the garden at all hours of the day, regardless of the weather. She’s always outside. Sometimes Alfred joins her, and they talk. She tells him things, now, much more than ever before. Nothing about the past, nothing about where they came from, but it still makes a fond warmth flutter in his stomach as she chatters about the birds she saw the other day, or how she likes the new dresses he bought for her. She doesn’t trust him completely, though. He knows it. It lingers, unsaid, between them, and Alfred does his best not to think about how much he wishes it was different.

The shadow, when he’s not with her, has taken over the library, devouring the books like they might disappear if he’s not quick enough. For the most part, Alfred leaves him alone, though occasionally Alfred might happen to drift into the large, comfortable, book-lined room, collecting a few carefully-chosen favourites to leave in piles on a coffee table. And if he forgets most of them, leaves them there for a few days, and finds they’ve been shifted around before a maid puts them back – well. It is what it is.

Alfred watches what stays where he left it, sees what gets shifted around, and it’s truly an eclectic mix. Gombrich, Wilde, Saint-Exupery. _Les Miserables_ , _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. Books of history, books of politics, books of art. Books about the why of people. The shadow has good taste, Alfred thinks, with an odd pleasure that’s almost akin to pride.

They don’t tell Alfred anything about their past. At least, not directly, anyway. He learns bits, here and there, from their conversations, but he learns more from what they don’t say.

Once, he overhears something he suspects he shouldn’t have.

“You should tell Alfred about your father.”

Her voice is hard, defensive, distracted. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“He is protecting us. It would be wise to give him warning, so he knows what he must defend against.”

“No, Saheb. Do not ask me again.”

He sighs. “Very well, love. But I wish you would reconsider.”

“We’ll be safe from him here. He won’t find us.”

“I wish that I shared your faith.”

Alfred feels guilty about it for the rest of the day, until he sees the shadow watching him with something like amusement in his eyes. After that, Alfred just feels silly for imagining that the other man might not have known he was there.

At night, after a communal meal that Alfred insists upon, the two of them curl together on the soft library couches and he reads her stories. Alfred knows because if he happens to wander down the corridor, he can hear the soft voices murmuring together, and occasionally the rasp of a page being turned. He doesn’t linger. He gives them their privacy. But he can’t stifle his curiosity entirely. 

One afternoon he’s in the library again, looking for some book or another, and from the corner of his eye he notices _Le Morte d’Arthur_ , sitting on a side-table. That’s not so unusual. What catches Alfred’s attention this time is the small bit of paper sticking out of one end, marking a place a little under half-way through. He’s reaching for it with inquisitive fingers when a sudden noise from behind makes him jump. He turns, and finds himself being watched.

“I would appreciate if you did not remove the marker,” the shadow tells him, voice muffled under the habitual cloth. “We are not finished with the story.”

Alfred shakes his head. “I wouldn’t,” he says. There’s a beat of silence, but before the shadow can return to his book, Alfred pushes on. “It’s an interesting choice of reading, that’s all. I was merely curious. What made you choose this one?”

The shadow watches him, eyes calm and measuring. There’s a pause, and for a moment Alfred doesn’t think he’ll get an answer.

And then, “It was one of her favourite stories, when she was young. I find that I had forgotten much, so we revisit it together.”

It makes Alfred smile, to think of her young and innocent and dreaming of knights, kings, and sorcerers. “I’m glad,” he says. “If you like, when you finish, I could lend you my copy of _The Once and Future King_. The difference in interpretation of the same story is remarkable. I think she would enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” is the reply. “That is kind. We will think on it.”

When Alfred leaves the library some time later, he is still smiling.

 

+++

 

Stealing ideas works better than Arthur had ever dreamed it would.

They try it on Cobb, first, just the two of them. Cobb had requisitioned the PASIV for what he called ‘essential technical exercises’ with Arthur. Saunders had glowered, unimpressed, but Cobb talked at him until he relented. In Arthur’s opinion, the CO gave in solely because he couldn’t seem to find another way to make Cobb stop talking.

It works. That’s all there is to it, really. Even though there’s so much more. It works, and Arthur wakes up laughing.

Later, after Arthur reels off Cobb’s credit card pin, social security number, and the location of his spare key (under the flower pot, really? No imagination, Cobb), after he finishes cackling at Cobb once having spilt an entire plate of oysters all over a date, after they stare, wide-eyed, at each other, riding high on adrenaline and the thrill of stealing the impossible; after all that, Arthur leans back in his chair and smiles at Cobb. “You were right, you ridiculous madman. We are going to do great things together.”

Cobb laughs.

 

+++

 

Life in the mansion is so completely foreign that it almost seems like a dream. 

There are still mornings when he wakes, Talia tucked against his side, to a moment of sheer disoriented panic, frozen in terror, gasping for breath after harsh, heaving, painful breath. Her presence settles him, of course, as always, but it always takes a few too-long moments to remember. The ornate room is Alfred’s. The obscenely soft bed is his own, now. The soft noise from outside is the wind in the trees, or the maid bringing breakfast.

He breathes slowly, careful not to wake her, not to let her see how terrified he is that it will end up being a figment of his overactive imagination and that in reality he is alone, trapped, broken, staring up at an impossible far-away sky.

He is still broken now, of course. That is not something that will ever change, no matter what Alfred claims, no matter what Talia hopes.

Alfred’s house is beautiful in a way Saheb had once forgotten could exist. It is warm or cool as required, there is delicious food provided for them, and the stately elegance of the building itself sometimes surprises him at odd moments throughout the day.

Alfred had explained about the other people in the house, whose task it is to keep the manor clean and provide the food, and many other tasks. Saheb avoids them whenever he can, though they are deferential, polite, and do not stare at his face. He still has trouble believing that there are people who spend their entire lives cleaning things, though. Not when they have an entire world available to them, with gardens full of trees and libraries full of books. 

Saheb had forgotten about books. If nothing else, this is a reason to be grateful. 

And he is grateful, of course, they are both indebted to Alfred to allowing them into his home. But it is a distant feeling, almost abstract, theoretical. He still doesn’t trust the man. But then neither does she, not entirely, so that’s alright. It’s better this way.

She is still full of hope, though. She wants so much for him, all the things Alfred promised, and Saheb may like Alfred but he does not believe in miracles. And he does not trust in hope.

Talia does not remember that hope is hollow, empty, deceitful. She may know death and violence as intimately as she knows hunger and thirst, but she never learned the harshest lessons of her birthplace, and for that he is thankful every day. But it also means that she does not understand when he says that he does not want more than he has.

He was supposed to die. He thought that he had. He died and she rose and he was never supposed to come back from that, not ever. He wasn’t supposed to live beyond that moment. He made his peace with death, with pain, and with slowly fading into the darkness, and now he wakes in a sunlit room with Talia sleeping next to him.

This was never supposed to be his life.

Once, only once, Alfred had called him Bane, and he’d felt the tug of the name deep in his bones. It was the truth, after all. More than that. It was a name for the self that he has been before and could become again, perhaps, in time. Her violent, vicious, loving protector. But that self isn’t needed here, not now, and with every day that he wakes to the sun it slips further away.

He doesn’t know who he is any more. He is still Saheb, still (always, forever) hers, but beyond that he is lost, floundering, drowning in a new world that she seems to understand better than he ever could.

But she laughs so often now, joyful and free, and he knows he would do anything she asked as long as it made her happy.

He is so lost that he can taste it, bitter and hated on the back of his throat. It simmers under his skin, a slow-burning sense of _not-right_ , mingling with the pain that is always, always there and driving him to run, and run, and never stop running until he’s back to a place where he understands the rules, where everyone else knows them too, where he may not be safe but at least he won’t feel so utterly at sea.

But she is here. And so he stays, and hides in stories, and tries not to imagine a world in which he can laugh without agony.

Hope is the last thing he needs now.

For himself, he asks for no more than this: Talia is happy. That is enough.

 

+++

 

Forging entire identities, creating backgrounds, life stories and all the detritus associated, is not something Alfred’s had a lot of experience in. The process is slow. He doesn’t want to outsource the work, though, doesn’t want the kind of attention that would bring, so he keeps on.

Alfred asks them what names they’d like to use, if they have any preferences for the identities he’s creating. She wants to be French. The shadow doesn’t care. Alfred decides to make him British, to claim him for the Empire or some such nonsense. The next day, he’s speaking in a posher version of Alfred’s own accent, though Alfred has no idea where he picked it up.

Alfred laughs, and starts correcting his pronunciation.

The shadow helps, once Alfred shows him what to do, and Alfred is impressed at the speed with which it he picks up. His handwriting is surprisingly adaptable as well, though his spelling is sometimes rather creative.

Lucius helps too, once Alfred thinks to ask him. He hacks a few databases, provides a few chips, and makes comments about electronic tracking until Alfred is paranoid enough that he's beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t get rid of his own passport. Later, Lucius comes to dinner and makes casual conversation, then sits with Alfred afterwards, sipping port and talking carefully about everything but his guests.

“Have you heard from your brother lately?” Lucius asks, turning his glass around in his fingers.

Alfred shakes his head. “Not recently, no. He’s very busy with this new top-secret project. I blame you for that, you know. I should never have introduced the pair of you.”

Lucius chuckles. “I guess that’s fair enough. Has he told you much about it? The project, I mean.”

“I know the basics.” Alfred shrugs. “He’s thrilled that architects have turned out to be so vital. Do you know one of his students has been recruited into a military project? I think he’s torn between pride and indignation. He’s always hated the army.”

“The military did commission the technology," Lucius says. "Just because I couldn’t stabilise it without Miles’ assistance doesn’t mean he can change who paid for it. It was lucky they were desperate enough to get it functioning – I don’t think they would have let me bring in a civilian otherwise. Let alone a socialist-leaning academic architect, of all things."

“True enough, I suppose,” Alfred agrees, taking another sip of his port and settling back into the comfortable softness of the old leather armchair.

“You know,” Lucius muses, “I think the dreaming might help your two strays.”

Alfred looks over, one eyebrow raised, sceptical. 

“Nothing too intense. Nothing that could put them at risk of dependence. Just give them a chance to blow up a few dreamscapes, and maybe it’ll help get whatever happened to them out of their system. A catharsis.”

“It’s not a casual thing, Lucius,” Alfred says. “Minds are too important to go messing about in like children at a playground.”

“Is that why you’ve always refused to go under with me?” Lucius snorts. “That’s not a surprise. But it’s not your decision. I’ll bring it to them and they can decide. They’re not interested, they don’t have to do it.”

Alfred nods. “Very well. But give it a little longer before you ask them – they’re still getting settled here, and I’m still trying to sort out the surgery for him. Wait until that’s done, and then you can ask.”

Lucius sips his port. “All right. I will.”

 

+++

 

Cobb’s the one who tells the higher-ups, of course. Arthur’s all for keeping their new-found skill to themselves, but Cobb believes in sharing knowledge, and Arthur can’t complain too loudly about that – he’s been taking advantage of it from the beginning.

But that’s not stopping him from complaining strenuously about the result: a team of dreamers on a mission to fish whatever secrets they can find out of his own subconscious.

Arthur’s not quiet about his dissatisfaction with this plan.

“Yours is the most hostile mind we have access to,” Saunders tells him, smirking. “We need to see how this – extraction process, did you call it? – works in a mind that might be fighting back.”

Arthur swears at him, colourfully and at length, though he has to hide a smirk as Cobb blushes bright red at his choice of words.

The dream is a long (still too short) blur of noise and colour and as many explosions as Arthur can fit into the given space of time. He’s fairly certain he got rid of the rookies quickly, but it was never really them he was worried about.

When the timer runs out and his preferred reality falls away, Arthur pulls the line from his wrists and sits up quickly.

“Did you find anything?” he demands of Cobb, who is still lying on his recliner, blinking drowsily.

“Just a box,” Cobb says. “All the others got killed before I found it, though.”

That’s something, anyway. Arthur leans in close, looming over the other man. “What was in it?”

“Just two things – a small gun, and a bird. A robin. It was tied to the gun, but it flew away when I opened the box.” Cobb squints up at him. “Does that mean something to you, Arthur?”

Arthur rocks back on his heels, stunned. That… well. Unexpected is too mild a word. But it could have been worse.

“Arthur?”

He shakes his head. “I – no. Nothing. It means nothing.”

Cobb narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“Just – just leave it, Cobb, okay? Just leave it.” Arthur steps back, away, and then turns to leave the room. Before he can get far, though, Saunders steps in front of him. There’s an ugly smile of his face.

“Hold up, soldier. You might get away with that sort of behaviour after an ordinary mission, but you’re debriefing properly on this one.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but Saunders talks over him. “I want to know exactly what the civilian found in your head. You’re going to tell us what it is, and what it means, and anything else I decide I want to know about it.” He keeps going over Arthur’s furious, outraged denial. “Else I’ll report you for gross insubordination, declare you a risk to the project, and have you removed from it immediately.”

Arthur freezes. Saunders smirks. “You’ll tell me exactly what I want to know, or you’ll never dream again. Got it?”

Arthur holds himself very, very still. Fire is singing under his skin, and it would be so easy to let it out, to destroy this man, to take him apart into little pieces. He lets the desire to do exactly that flare in his eyes as he breathes, slow, steady, letting the fire settle and hard, ruthless, burning ice take its place. Anger will win him nothing here. He takes another breath, and then he has another plan.

Behind him Cobb is talking, making noises about not thinking this is appropriate, unnecessary psychological strain, really probably not a good idea.

Arthur just stands, letting his gaze flick slowly around the room, resting briefly on each of the young soldiers. They take the hint, ducking their heads and scampering quickly out of the room.

Arthur, Cobb, and Saunders are left alone in the training room. Cobb watches, clearly uneasy, but doesn’t try to stop Arthur as he steps in close, into Saunders’ space. They’re of a height, but when it comes to muscle Arthur has a clear advantage. He pitches his voice carefully. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider that, sir?” he asks, soft, innocently curious. “Because – well. Let’s review, shall we?” He lets his voice harden. “First of all, I can break your body in any number of painful ways, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me. I wouldn’t kill you, but I can guarantee you’d never walk properly again.”

Saunders sucks in a breath, but Arthur overrides him. “You’ll call for help, or Cobb will. I’ll be restrained, taken away. Probably court-martialled. I’ll claim PTSD, a psychotic break, psychological damage from dreaming or from the Somnacin, stand-over bullying from you, emotional trauma, and all manner of other lovely mitigating factors. My record is excellent. The shrinks won’t even be surprised.”

Saunders tries to step back, put some distance between them. Arthur follows his movement, keeps the closeness between them. Saunders is breathing faster now.

Arthur continues. “I’ll get a slap on the wrist, maybe some mandatory psych evals. You’ll still be in hospital at this point, but the way. Then I’ll start on the project. Dream-sharing. Idea theft. All the secrets. I’m sure it’ll be easy to find a journalist interested in a story like that.”  He grins. “Dreams. Not the best use of tax-payers’ dollars, is it? There’ll be a public outcry. You’ll be blamed. Unable to control your subordinate. Or I could just pretend to be you when I do it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Bang. There goes your career.”

Saunders swallows, pale, staring at Arthur with wide eyes. Arthur leans closer still, until his lips are just next to Saunders’ ear. “But you’ve forgotten the most important thing – you went down with me into the dreams. How many of your secrets do you think you left lying around? Careless of you, really, to leave such important things where someone like me might find them.”

Then Arthur steps back. Saunders staggers, gasps in a breath, can’t seem to find his voice. He’s still staring at Arthur. Cobb seems frozen, gaze darting between them both.

Arthur smirks, spreads his hands out. “Think on it awhile, sir. I know you’re not very bright, so I’ll give you some time to decide. I’m going to get a coffee.” He moves towards the door. Cobb follows him quickly, eyes tactfully averted.

The next day, Saunders is gone. The PASIV is broken.

No one ever mentions whether the two events are connected.

 

+++

 

Alfred made a promise, and he intends to keep it.

The shadow still wears the cloth mask. Alfred doesn’t stare, doesn’t mention it, doesn’t ask if it hurts. Instead, he makes a few calls to a few old friends at Gotham General Hospital. The professor of trauma surgery remembers Thomas Wayne fondly, asks after Bruce, and would be more than happy to see an interesting case for an old friend.

There are a great deal of medical discussions after that. Alfred tries to follow as they discuss whether the injuries fall under trauma, or if they should be under the domain of the plastic surgeons, or the otolaryngologists, or the reconstructive surgeons; whether or not his ability to speak reflects an underlying lack of pathology in the oropharynx; whether one operation will be enough or if they’ll need several. He loses track once they start talking about taking cartilage from the ears to reconstruct the nose.

The man whose face they’re talking about says nothing. He sits in the corner, she sits next to him, and he watches with wary eyes as his face is verbally dissected a hundred different ways. She watches too, but her eyes are full of hope.

Alfred worries that he’ll somehow change his mind, that he’ll decide he doesn’t want the procedure, conclude that it’s too complicated, not worth the trouble.

He doesn’t. He says nothing.

She has more to say. She has decided she will be present while he is asleep. This, it seems, is not negotiable.

The doctors make a lot of unhappy noises, as expected, and Alfred can’t say he disagrees with them. He suspects that letting her in to see the operation would go badly for everyone involved. He doesn’t tell them this, of course. Instead, he has several conversations with each party, trying to find an acceptable compromise.

Finally, she agrees to let Alfred be present instead.

This is not what she would prefer, it is made clear. She is to be there when he falls asleep, and when he wakes, and Alfred will watch over him during the operation. Alfred has witnessed surgeries before, even assisted Thomas once or twice in an emergency, and as long as he keeps quiet and stays out of the way, the surgeons are happy enough.

“I am trusting you,” she tells Alfred, fierce-eyed and tight-lipped. “Keep him safe.”

“I will,” Alfred tells her. “I promise.”

Several hours of theatre time later, Alfred almost regrets his promise. His feet ache, his back hurts, and he’s torn between fascination and utter boredom as he catches glimpses of the work between broad backs and stooped shoulders. And they’re nowhere near done yet.

Some immeasurable length of time later, they finish, and he’s wheeled around to the recovery bay. She’s waiting. The relief in her eyes when she sees him, alive, more than makes up for Alfred’s sore feet.  

 

+++

 

He has a new face. She can barely believe it, but it’s true. She runs her fingers over his nose, his new lips, his chin, bandages soft beneath her seeking hands.

He’s still asleep, drowsy with the drugs they say will keep him pain-free as he heals. They’ve done something to him that will keep him from waking properly for several hours, but that’s alright. She can watch over him. Alfred kept him safe during the surgery, and now she will take her turn.

Alfred has done so much for them both that Talia scarcely knows what to say to him. He stands by the bed, watching with that calm smile on his face as she stares at Saheb.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.” It seems like so very little compared to what he’s given them, but it’s better than nothing.

He smiles back at her. “My dear child, it was my genuine pleasure.”

Talia stands then, one hand hiding in her pocket, clutching her knife. She casts a look back at Saheb as he lies in the hospital bed. There are wires and tubes and strange machines that go ping, things that she doesn’t understand keeping him alive, but he is safe. They both are. She lets go of the knife and moves to Alfred, putting her arms around him and tucking herself close as his arms come up to hold her.

“Thank you,” she whispers. And, “One day, soon, when he is better, I will tell you where this happened. If you like. I will tell you why.”

Alfred sucks in a deep breath. She can feel his chest expanding. He doesn’t draw away, though, and doesn’t try to tighten his grip. Just stays still, and breaths against her. “I would like that, my dear.”

“Talia,” she says. “My name is Talia.”

 

+++

 

It’s been six and a half days since Arthur last dreamed. Just under a week. Not that long, really, all things considered. 

It’s driving him mad.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. Just that too-familiar restlessness, the feeling of dissatisfaction with reality, the bone-deep longing for something better. He could ignore it without much effort. By the fourth day he was spending all his time in the gym. He had to stop when the shivers got so bad he could barely stand.

It’s been roughly one hundred and fifty hours, and at this point Arthur’s ready to peel the skin from his flesh if only it would make his mind _shut up_.

But it won’t, it won’t, and he can’t seem to stop it from running away from him at a thousand miles an hour, slipping away every time he tries to grasp it, tries to rein it in. It’s like insomnia, like a nightmare, the worst case of claustrophobia in the world, the feeling that reality is suffocating him and he can’t breathe, can’t get enough air into his stupid, useless lungs, he’s lightheaded but at the same time his thoughts are going mad and he can’t make them stop. There’s an itch like fire crawling under his skin that he can’t fix, can’t scratch, can’t do anything but try to ignore. It’s psychosomatic, he knows, it’s all in his head not in his body but _gods-bloody-dammit_ that doesn’t help at all.

At least the shaking’s stopped. His hands are steady again. He could hold a gun.

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good thing. There are consequences if he shoots people in reality. He remembers that, if only barely.

Hopeless frustration is a sour taste at the back of his throat.

The walls of his room are an innocuous, vapid cream. They refuse to change. He pushes at them again, and again, and again, with his mind and his hands and his bare fists, but they stay stubbornly unchanging. He’s spent the last two days in this room, not eating, not sleeping, and he can’t change the walls. He can’t change anything. Reality is a prison he can’t escape from. And when he gets through this (because he will, he must, there’s no other choice but to go mad and that will never be an acceptable choice) Arthur is never going to let himself get so helplessly reliant on anything, not ever again.

He’s trapped in a world he can’t control, and he loathes it more than he’s hated anything in a very long time. His mind is fragmenting away, tiny shards splintering, sharp edges glinting, slicing his seeking fingers as he tries to catch them, tries to put himself together, fails.

Arthur’s never valued anything so highly as his own mind. His own sense of self. It was safe, inside his head, where no one could ever reach it. He could keep it safe and never, ever, lose it.

He’s never hated being wrong quite so much.

Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed his absence. With no CO to report to, and Cobb busy in meetings about whether or not the PASIV can be repaired, there’s no one to miss him.

Arthur eyes his hands, calculating. His knuckles are still bloody, raw, matching the smears of blood on the walls. Pain in dreams might be in the mind, but pain in reality is of the body. Solid. Grounding. If he washes the wounds in salt they will heal better, and the sting will be delicious.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Arthur.” Cobb’s voice. “Let me in.”

Arthur ignores him.

“Let me in, or I swear to god I will break this door down.”

For a moment, Arthur weighs the likelihood of Cobb doing exactly that against the odds the other man will piss off and leave him the hell alone. It’s an easy call, unfortunately. He sighs, and gets up to open the door.

“What is it, Cobb?” He keeps the opening as small as possible, leaning against the door-jamb so Cobb can’t see past him. The room’s a complete and utter mess, he realises, but he doesn’t know when or how that happened.

Cobb scowls at him. “Unless you want me to start talking in the corridor, I suggest you open the door and let me in.”

Arthur grimaces. “Fine.” He steps away, crashes back down onto the bed, not looking as Cobb enters and shuts the door behind him. Cobb’s not a threat. Even like this, Arthur could kick his arse through his ears, and they both know it. And that’s without the knives in the nightstand. Arthur sighs, thinking longingly of the vicious gleam of sharp metal.

“Jesus,” Cobb says. He moves towards the bed, frowning. “I didn’t realise it’d hit you so hard. Fuck, Arthur, I’m sorry.”

Arthur blinks at him. “What?”

“The detox – it shouldn’t have been so bad, not the way we regulated it. You should never have reacted this badly.”

It figures that just when Arthur wants to be alone, Cobb turns up and starts spouting gibberish. Arthur hates his life. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Cobb squints at him. “Dream-dependence. I told you about it, remember? I didn’t think you’d get it, I never have. God, I’m sorry. I should have come by earlier.”

Arthur leans his head back and shuts his eyes. “Cobb, I have no idea what the hell you’re on about. But you can shut up and piss off any time you like.”

Cobb’s voice gets closer. “Really? I was sure I’d told you about it. How do you feel? Are you okay?”

Arthur grits his teeth, reminds himself that he’s not dreaming. Cobb’s not a projection. “What do you think?”

“Looks like it's really done a number on you.” The bed dips as Cobb sits down next to him. “Miles always theorised it was proportional to how well the mind adapted to the dream-space. I guess that makes sense –you did pick it up a little too well.” He chuckles, then pauses. “I always thought it was a stupid theory.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just concentrates on breathing, and not killing Cobb.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you. I thought I had.”

Not killing Cobb is getting harder by the minute.

“I should take you to the doctor. They can sedate you, get you through the worst of it.” Another pause. “Or I should call Miles, get his advice.”

Arthur opens his eyes, though, just a little, and keeps his slitted gaze on Cobb.

“Have I told you that you’re a scary bastard sometimes?” Cobb asks, conversational. “Because you are. And fine, yes, I know, you hate asking for help.” A longer silence. Then, soft and heavy with guilt, “I’m really, really sorry, Arthur. Really.”

Arthur shuts his eyes again, and thinks about kicking Cobb out. Getting up seems like too much effort, though. Fuck, he’s so tired, all he wants to do is sleep, and Cobb won’t stop talking. Arthur turns his face away and hopes the other man will take the hint.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before, you know,” Cobb muses. “Not in my whole life. I guess that’s not so surprising, really, given I grew up in a small town. I’d never seen a city before I went to university. But I’ve always been an idealist, I know. Glass half-full, all that nonsense. A romantic, Miles says. You’re much more cynical, of course, you probably think I’m a naïve fool. I don’t know.

Arthur lets Cobb’s babbling wash over him, a background to the mad rush-rush-rush of his own thoughts, death and sand and city skies, the feel of a gun in his hands and the smell of smoke in his nostrils. Exhaustion sits, smug and gloating, at the back of his throat.

“I read once that a cynic is just an idealist with a broken heart,” Cobb says. “I don’t know if it’s true. I guess it could be.” He pauses for a moment. “I wonder if I’ll end up a cynic, too. I wonder if it’s inevitable.” There’s an odd note in his voice, almost wistful. “But then that presupposes a certain kind of predestination, don’t you think? And that’s a whole new philosophical argument again.”

Cobb can talk philosophy endlessly, Arthur knows. He wonders if this is something they teach in university. It might be. But as the one-sided conversation meanders aimlessly, Arthur can’t help but find it somehow soothing. A distraction from the chaos inside his own head. He focuses on the words, on the ideas behind them, on trying to follow Cobb’s sometimes-bizarre thought processes. It’s better than what his brain is coming up with on its own, anyway.

Cobb’s sitting on the floor now, leaning against the bed and rambling about Kant. Arthur’s not sure when he moved. It doesn’t matter. At some point, he’s become distracted enough that the days of exhaustion and sleep deprivation have somehow snuck up on him.

Arthur makes a mental note to tell Cobb how boring he is. He’s literally talked Arthur to sleep.

 

+++

 

The bandages come off tomorrow. Saheb doesn’t know how he feels about it. To be without any covering on his face – he will feel naked, he thinks.

Talia is thrilled, of course. She’s been incandescent with happiness since he came home from the hospital (and when the mansion became home, he’s not sure).

He’s still staggered by the strange lack of pain. He has become so accustomed to the constant dragging weight that to be without it almost feels as though he’s floating.

He will have a new face, and a new life. It’s like a dream, and he’s starting to hope he doesn’t wake up.

Distantly, he hears a bell ring, summoning them for the evening meal. He shakes his thoughts away, moves down towards the main dining room. Lucius and Alfred are already there, talking softly, and Talia is just behind him. She touches his side, gentle and possessive, as they join the two men at the table. He meets her eyes, smiles, and then wonders at how easy it is.

Alfred clears his throat. “Before we eat,” he starts, “Lucius and I have something for you both.”

Lucius lifts the small bag that’s been sitting beneath his chair. “They’re not quite finished, but they’re close. You’ll need to put in a picture after tomorrow, of course. But I have some important visitors arriving next week, so we thought it best that these be in your possession before that happens.”

“Indeed,” Alfred agrees.

Lucius sets a large silver briefcase next to the bag. “And once that’s all settled, I’d like to teach you both to use this.”

Saheb eyes it warily. Talia leans forward. “What is it?” she asks.

“A way to share dreams, and ideas,” Lucius says. “I invented it for the military, but I think it has other applications outside their rigid training programs. Will you let me show you?”

She tilts her head to one side. He can tell she’s curious, but she hides it well. “I will think about it.” Reaching out, she takes the bag and unfolds it carefully. Inside, there’s a pile of familiar-looking documents. Two passports, birth certificates, drivers licences, and all kinds of other ephemera spill across the table. Saheb watches as she paws through it, clearly delighted, before picking out her own passport.

“Mallorie Pennyworth,” she reads, then looks up at Alfred. He looks embarrassed. “You have given me your surname?”

“The staff believe you are my niece,” Alfred says. “I thought – it seemed wise to continue the fiction. My brother married a French woman, Marie. He’s agreed to confirm you’re their daughter.” He pauses for a moment. “If you wish, of course – we can change it all, if you would rather a completely separate identity.”

Talia’s staring at him now, eyes wide. “You – you want me to be a member of your family?”

Alfred nods. “Only if you wish it, my dear.”

She’s in his arms a moment later. Saheb feels a deep stab of jealousy, to see Alfred the author of such happiness for her, but he forces it aside. She is happy, he tells himself. That is what counts.

To distract himself, he reaches for his own passport. The place for a photo is blank, of course, but the rest of the information is filled in. Samuel Eames, British citizen.

“Is the name alright?” Lucius leans over, watching as Saheb pages through the document. “We thought it could explain the name that she – that Mallorie calls you. A nickname, maybe from when you were children or something.”

“Samuel is not my name,” Saheb says. “But I do not mind Eames. I will keep it.”

“Right,” says Lucius. He sticks out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Eames.” He smiles. “Will you let me show you dream-sharing?”

Saheb – Eames, now, inclines his head. He knows she will want to try it. Best that he be aware of the dangers before she does. “Very well,” he agrees. “Show me.”

 

+++

 

Arthur wakes a few hours later, feeling like a live current is running under his skin. He breaks the nightstand this time, though fortunately he can’t keep his trembling hands still enough to unlock the draw that has the knives.

Cobb is still there, though, and he talks Arthur down again. And then again, a few hours after that. Each time, Arthur sleeps for longer.

It’s hard. It’s so hard. He hates it. God, he hates it _so much_. He hates being so vulnerable, so needy, so dependent on Cobb’s help. But even when the storm in his mind is raging out of control, he’s pragmatic enough to know that needs must, and this is better than the alternative.

Besides, at least it’s Cobb. If Arthur was forced to depend on anyone, at least he’s it’s someone he’s pretty sure he can trust. He’s been through Cobb’s mind, found his secrets, though Cobb’s found at least some small part of Arthur’s secrets too. There’s a strange closeness to having shared a consciousness with someone, but this goes deeper. Arthur’s never trusted anyone enough to let them get this close before, not even when he was overseas.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it, though.

And even if it is getting easier, he still misses the dreaming. Cobb makes unhappy noises about the broken PASIV, and maybe it being better this way, but Arthur hasn’t really been listening.

The way he sees it, he has two options: never dream again, and thus never risk the consequences of going without; or steal a PASIV and ensure that he has access to enough somnacin that no one will ever be able to keep him from dreaming again.

Neither of these is an option if he stays with the army.

Not that he’d ever seriously contemplated the first choice, of course, for any other reason than completeness’s sake. He could no more give up dreaming than he could give up breathing.

That leaves option number two. He’s lying in his bed, contemplating the various ways he could source and steal a functional PASIV (transfer to another dream-share project, steal from Cobb’s university, and locate the manufacturer are all leading contenders) when there’s another knock on the door.

“Arthur!” Cobb shouts. “Arthur, open up!”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but gets up. “Déjà vu, much?” he grumbles as he unlocks the door. “What the hell, Cobb?”

Cobb is grinning like a madman. “You’ll never guess, Arthur, you’ll never guess but it’s brilliant. It’s so brilliant, you won’t believe it. I barely believed it, but it’s true!” He’s almost dancing in the corridor now.  Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“If I’m never going to guess, you’d better tell me.”

“The idiots have finally decided they can’t fix the PASIV in house,” Cobb says. “They’re sending it back to the manufacturer for repairs.”

“So?”

“They’re sending us with it.”

Whatever Arthur had been expecting, this was not it. “What!”

“I know!” Cobb bounces on his heels. “I’m going as technical advisor, and I’ve requested you as a security measure. They’ve got nothing else for you to do at the moment, not with everything on hold, so they’ve agreed! We’re going together!”

Arthur schools his expression quickly, but he knows Cobb can see he's pleased. “That’s good. Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cobb replies. “This is going to be great. I know you had all those questions about the tech, and I bet Mr Fox can answer them. We’re leaving tomorrow, okay? Pack warm things – I hear Gotham’s cold this time of year.”

 


End file.
